Father, Son

O' Daddy, Daddy, why doth pale the cold
sun lofting, ashen rise before its blaze
of Winter glory- gold and crimson dressed?

My only Son, so sweet a child, pure
in what you ask and soon shall understand;
the dawning sun, celestial birth, alights
in like your blooming, frail before its flight.

And why, O' why upon its infant rise
doth frozen tears, afleet and falling, gray
and countless gild the East and waking West?

My darling Son, my growing Rose, if you
the Morning Star, than I the sky. As weak
I watch you rise, as sure I cradle calm,
I gentle kissing cry; such pride, such joy-
Yet sorrow! Hurt, what hurt awaits my Boy.

O' Father, full in gilded glory, why
doth red it western bleed? Its fullest bloom
precedes its scarlet waning. Why to fall
in shadows, sad and fading laid to rest?

The waxing sun, upon its western crest,
its fullest bloom, decides to wilting wane,
decides! Its choice to fall, afar and full,
gives life to each the bursting stars; a life
for countless lives. A sacrifice my Son,
so great a gift, the glory born in death.
Like yours my Love, yet lacking in its breadth.

As darkness comes, and sadness proud parades,
again, again December frozen weeps!
For what the gloom? the tears and sorrowed sky?
For what the sadness, born from sweet celeste?

My bless-ed Son, my young begotten Son,
again, reflecting I December's sky.
Again my tears, the gray and countless cold,
descend for sure the choice you'll mercied make.
My Love, the sailing sun, arise and full,
away and dusking, roams in passioned praise!
For life the gloom, for love the solemn sky;
for you the tears, your choice my sweet Celeste.
But joyful, proud i crystaled cry. Again
it shall tomorrow rise, as sure as you
shall resurrect. Behold my Son, its glow
reflects the gift, you gratis shall bestow.